


I'm Dreaming Of...

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Riding, Sleeping Together, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill: </p>
<p>Bagginshield: This is the right way to make mulled cider. No, this is the right way to make mulled cider. No, this is the right way to make mulled cider. THIS IS MY FATHER'S RECIPE YOU TAKE THAT BACK. &c.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Dreaming Of...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tawnyPort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawnyPort/gifts).



> I swear I meant this as a cute Christmas ficlet, but my brain decided to make it pre-slash and it sort of... grew from there. /winces
> 
> Thanks to alkjira for putting up with me and giving suggestions.

When Thorin twisted his key in the lock and threw open the door, he was hit by a waft of air that smelled unmistakeably like _Christmas_.

 

It was perhaps not an easy task to put his finger on what exactly constituted the smell of Christmas, but the important part was that Thorin’s shoulders relaxed completely, tension draining from his body as he filled his lungs again. He closed the door.

 

“Bilbo?” he called.

 

“Kitchen!” Ah, yes, that was a little obvious, now that he thought about it. “How did you know it was me?”

 

Thorin’s lips curled into a tiny smile as he hung his coat and put his keys into their bowl. “It’s not much of a stretch. Dís only cooks on Christmas, Víli does the ham, and nothing Frerin makes smells as delicious.” By the end of this explanation he’d walked down the hall and rounded the corner in time to catch sight of Bilbo chuckling.

 

Bright hazel eyes met his. “It’s nice to know I get invited over for Christmas solely for my cooking skills.”

 

“That’s not true.” He started folding back the sleeves of his green shirt to his elbows. “It’s not just Christmas.”

 

“Ha-ha.”

 

Thorin peered interestedly through the oven’s glass window. “What biscuits are these?”

 

“Gingerbread.” Even without turning Thorin knew he was on the receiving end of Bilbo’s stink eye. “They’re for the tree, not for eating.”

 

Thorin sniffed. “I’m not the one you should be worrying about.”

 

“Yes, well, there’s enough pepper in there to dissuade even Fíli and Kíli, don’t worry about that.”

 

Eurgh. There went his plans to filch a star or an angel… or two. Of each. “Where are the boys?”

 

“Dís and Víli took them and Frodo ice-skating. They’ve earned my deepest respect.” Despite Bilbo’s smile, he sounded serious, gazing into a pot on the stove as if it had the answers of the universe within it, instead of the whatever it actually contained.

 

“I think it helps that Víli used to play ice hockey for the state. And that none of the boys will dare cross my sister.”

 

Bilbo brightened at this. “That’s true. Anyhow, they said they’ll be back in about an hour from now – by which the biscuits will have cooled so the boys can help decorate them.” He raised his eyebrows at Thorin, who felt something tug in his belly. (Indigestion?) “Will you join us?”

 

“Maybe,” Thorin rumbled, and both he and Bilbo carefully ignored the fact that that really meant ‘yes’.

 

Bilbo smiled again, then reached for the translucent glass jar of cinnamon sticks. On the countertop were a myriad of other jars and bottles and containers and boxes, all pulled from the pantry. Thorin was sure that they’d all be returned to their rightful places as soon as Bilbo finished with… whatever he was doing.

 

Thorin stepped ‘round the stove-and-countertop island and stood beside Bilbo so he could more closely observe the way the smaller man broke a couple of cinnamon sticks into spiky shards. He dropped them unceremoniously into the clear amber liquid in the aforementioned pot.

 

While Bilbo _wasn’t_ invited over for Christmas solely for his cooking, it probably said something the way he was so comfortable in Dís’ kitchen. Then again, they were not strangers to one another; not only were Thorin’s nephews friends with Bilbo’s nephew/cousin, Thorin counted Bilbo amongst his own dearest… friends.

 

Yes. Friends.

 

There was absolutely nothing wrong with that fact, by the way. He was perfectly content to bask in the bright sunlight of Bilbo’s friendship – it was just that his heart (and sometimes even his treacherous brain) that insisted he would be happier if he and Bilbo were _more_ than friends.

 

Yes, well, giving up Bilbo’s friendship for something that would never come to pass was not a choice high on Thorin’s list of options. So he swallowed his pride, took comfort in Bilbo’s presence when it was asked of him, and avoided any mistletoe during Christmas.

 

“Thorin?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Are you going to keep staring into space, or can I ask you for help?” A hint of teasing lingered in the corner of Bilbo’s mouth, and had Thorin been lesser man, the curve to those lips would have distracted him into more staring.

 

“What can I do?” he asked instead, leaning his hip against the edge of the counter.

 

“Crush these cardamom pods for me?” Bilbo pushed the cutting board towards him, with the little brown-green pods set in a neat pile. “They’re a little too hard, even thought I made sure they’re well within their expiry date.”

 

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Cardamom isn’t difficult to crush.”

 

“Maybe not for a strong, beefy person such as yourself – but I’ve had to deal with two loads of laundry and too much dough kneading. So get to work.”

 

“Beefy,” Thorin repeated disdainfully. He was not ‘beefy’. He just chose to exercise more than certain insufferably stubborn shorties. Even so, he reached for the little glass jar the pods had come in, and used the bottom of it to squash them until they yielded their little black seeds. “There. Not hard at all.”

 

Bilbo just rolled his eyes, taking the cutting board and sweeping the cardamom – shells and all – into his pot.

 

“You know, if I didn’t know better,” and Thorin did, just in case anyone was wondering, “I’d say you were making mulled cider.”

 

Slicing clementines, Bilbo didn’t look up. “I am.”

 

He frowned. “You’re not.”

 

A rude snort. “Thorin, I think _I’d_ know what I’m making.”

 

“What are you doing with clementines and cardamom, then?” Everyone knew that you needed a thinly sliced orange; it was much easier than what Bilbo was doing, which was halving his clementines and studding each half with a clove. So fussy.

 

“This is how I do it.” Bilbo looked up, having deposited the last of the fruit into the warm cider. “Besides which, these are basically oranges. Just smaller and sweeter, and more seasonal.”

 

“It’s wrong,” Thorin said flatly.

 

“It’s _not_ wrong. Goodness, Thorin, just because I’m not following _your_ recipe doesn’t make what I’m doing nonsense.” And, completely at odds with what he was saying, Bilbo then put _sugar_ into the pot, followed by what looked like _tea_.

 

Thorin absolutely _had_ to catch Bilbo’s wrist before he added bay leaves. It was his responsibility to good mulled cider. “Are you aware that there is a much simpler – and faster – way to make this?”

 

Bilbo shot him what could only be described as a mutinous look. “It might be faster, but my way is better.” He released the bay leaves from between forefinger and thumb, jaw set stubbornly.

 

Thorin pulled his hand back as if scalded. “How dare – take that back!”

 

“I shan’t.”

 

“You bloody well shall, considering you’ve gone and insulted my father’s memory by – by insinuating that his mulled cider is rubbish!”

 

Of course, he’d forgotten that he was dealing with a churlishly obstinate so-and-so. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” Bilbo said sharply. “And you aren’t getting an apology just because the recipe you use is your father’s. That doesn’t excuse your rudeness one bit!”

 

“Oh, but it excuses your rudeness?”

 

“I – that doesn’t make any sense.”

 

About to draw in a breath to argue his case, Thorin abruptly realised what they were doing. Two grown men, sniping at each other over whose recipe was ‘wrong’… he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What doesn’t make any sense is why we’re quarrelling about this in the first place.”

 

The way the annoyance drew out of Bilbo was almost palpable, and was noticeable even with Thorin’s eyes screwed shut. “…holiday stress?”

 

He sighed loudly, letting his hand drop to his side, and considered an equally sheepish Bilbo. “We were just both being stupid.”

 

“I’ll take that as your apology.”

 

“I’ll take that as _yours_.” Thorin’s lips twitched when Bilbo childishly stuck his tongue out. “Charming.”

 

“Shush. Hand me the rum.”

 

Thorin did, but only after taking a swig from the bottle. This went protested of course, particularly because he hadn’t used a glass, but he needed it seeing as Bilbo proceeded to slosh some into the pot of wrong-cider. A wooden spoon carefully stirred the alcohol-spice-fruit mixture, and then Bilbo turned off the burner.

 

“Want a taste?”

 

It would take too long to explain that tasting the results of another mulled cider recipe would be a grievous insult to his father – not to mention that that was ridiculous and would likely spark another silly argument besides. Thorin just shook his head. “I’ll stick to the rum, thanks.”

 

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport.” He’d ladled out enough to half-fill a mug, and thrust it underneath Thorin’s nose. There was that Christmas smell again. “Just a sip.”

 

“No.”

 

“Please?”

 

Fucking damn those eyes of his. And damn the delectable aroma drifting from the mug, rich and dark and sweet. “Just a sip,” he said darkly. He had to cup his fingers underneath the bottom, seeing as Bilbo seemed to have no plans to release the mug.

 

…damn it. It _did_ taste better. There was warmth – heat, almost – and an abundance comfort, like being wrapped in a duvet on a chilly winter’s night. Thorin felt himself relaxing even more than he had when he’d opened the front door, all the way down to his toes, and – hang on, when had he closed his eyes?

 

“Shall I get you your own mug?” Bilbo asked, sounding entirely too smug than he deserved to be. It was only mulled cider. Nothing to make a fuss over at all.

 

(Yes, he was aware how hypocritical those thoughts were. No matter. Bilbo didn’t have to know.)

 

They were still both holding onto the mug, and quite without Thorin’s notice, they’d drifted closer together as well. From this distance he could count the freckles on Bilbo’s face (not that he had to; he’d done it before, on another occasion). From this distance he could lean forward mere centimetres and bring their lips together.

 

He shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t.

 

Pasting a smile on his face, Thorin let the mug slip from his hold, trusting that Bilbo’s grip on it was secure. He didn’t quite expect Bilbo’s other hand to wind around his wrist – and he didn’t expect the pained expression he was faced with.

 

“Don’t pull back,” Bilbo said softly, an edge of hurt lacing his tone. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

 

Thorin frowned. He doubted very much that he misheard what Bilbo had said – but then the obvious conclusion would be too fantastical to believe. No. Surely he was projecting his own hopes onto Bilbo’s words and tone. The converse was impossible, it was –

 

“That charming expression isn’t winning you any points, Thorin. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way we’ve been dancing around each other for months – don’t tell me you don’t want us to… don’t want us to become an _us_.” Bilbo bit his lip. “Don’t tell me I’ve read this all wrongly.”

 

It took another moment – a moment for Thorin to check and double-check what Bilbo had said, running it through his head as a small thumb smoothed over the inside of his wrist. Then the proverbial light bulb went off, and Thorin sealed the distance between them.

 

* * *

 

Despite months of mutual attraction (though it had to be said that the sexual tension had been there for a lot longer), both Bilbo and Thorin agreed that it had to be set aside. It was, after all, the busiest time of the year. There were presents to be wrapped (and first bought, in Frerin’s case), decorations to be put up (and replaced, after the dog’s daily exuberance), and children to keep entertained (which they took in turns, because Bilbo told the best stories and Thorin’s singing put them to sleep).

 

It was the 23rd, and Thorin was tucking a duvet around the pile of children in the living room. Little Gimli had arrived earlier today with his parents and uncle, and Ori (who had his head pillowed on Kíli’s shoulder) had been with them since yesterday.

 

Thorin found himself glad that his family included so many children; it tamped down the urge to have any of his own. He smoothed the unruly hair on Fíli’s head. Sure, they were all intelligent and adorable and obedient when they wanted to be, but the fact remained that they were children, and devious children at that. Especially in groups.

 

This would probably be best exemplified by the happenings of the morning, when Ori and Frodo came up with a plan to steal all the chocolate biscuits in the pantry. They hadn’t managed to pilfer _all_ of them, but they’d made off with enough to make Bilbo quite grumpy.

 

Thorin stood (with creaky knees that no one would know about) and quietly made his way out of the room. Thinking about Bilbo had given him a hankering for the man’s presence.

 

Bilbo was in the kitchen rolling out pastry while Víli poked at mince pie filling. He didn’t outwardly look stressed, but when Thorin went over and placed a hand at the small of his back, Bilbo visibly relaxed. The motion of his rolling pin paused, and he directed a dazzling smile at Thorin.

 

Before either could speak, Víli did. “Kids all asleep?”

 

“Yes.” Thorin had to smile at Bilbo’s relieved sigh. “They were pretty knackered to start with.”

 

“They’re not the only ones,” Bilbo muttered, flattening the pastry with renewed vigour.

 

“Need help?” Thorin asked.

 

He ended up stuffing the miniature-tart tins with pastry and then the mince filling. Bilbo cut out star shapes and topped each pie, and Víli slid the tins into the oven. He wiped his hands on a towel and grinned at the two of them.

 

“You two are free to go. Entertain yourselves,” he said, winking. Clearly his brother-in-law had been taking lessons from Frerin, because he managed to make a two-word sentence sound incredibly suggestive. “I can handle it from here.”

 

In response, Thorin spitefully grabbed Víli’s cigarette packet on the table – which earned him a two-fingered salute – and waggled them at Bilbo. “Joining me?”

 

Standing outside in the cool night air reminded Thorin of his teen years; sneaking out for a fag away from the severe gaze of his parents. He didn’t smoke as often now as he had then, but it was nice to have that familiar tightness in his lungs – and it was nicer still to be standing there with Bilbo.

 

Another reason why he was reminded of being a teenager was the fluttery feelings in his chest, just by glancing at honey-gold curls and clever hazel eyes. Thorin’s life had not been the easiest, and for a long time he’d never thought that he’d find someone… well, someone like Bilbo. Someone who made his heart pound, who had a backbone, who was all kinds of perfect and imperfect at once. Someone he loved.

 

Movements slow, Thorin very carefully curled his free arm around Bilbo’s waist, exhaling smoke and watching it coil and whorl. Bilbo said nothing; he leaned into Thorin, though, so that counted as a victory.

 

It was… kind of amazing that they’d gotten this far. Thorin had been perfectly – well, not happy per se –, perfectly okay with keeping his distance. He’d come to terms with it. And if Bilbo hadn’t stepped up they’d still be ‘dancing around each other’.

 

Now, though, they were both aware of their feelings for each other. They’d done no more than that first kiss, and some casual touching, and yet Thorin felt happier than he had in some time. He knew, logically, that his life had been perfectly fine before kissing Bilbo – but now _something_ had clicked into place, like he’d found the last piece of a puzzle and fitted it in neatly. It was the same satisfying feeling, only amplified.

 

Bilbo puffed out a series of smoke rings and Thorin found himself smiling.

 

* * *

 

In spite of Víli’s suggestion that they entertain themselves – and in spite of Thorin’s ‘second’ brain insisting that his bed was awfully empty – they returned to their separate rooms. Thorin splashed cold water onto his face, hoping that that would suffice in place of a bath. As delightful as the images of a squirming Bilbo were, now that Thorin was allowed to touch, he had _plans_. Plans that could not be implemented while they were under his sister’s roof, with children downstairs – just, no. That would mean they’d have to take five minutes or less, and Thorin really wanted their first time to be _extremely_ pleasurable.

 

Hmm. He might need that shower.

 

His brain – brains, both of them – perked up at the mention of the shower, because that of course meant he could wank. If he wasn’t allowed to shove Bilbo into his bed, then at least he could sate his lust temporarily. T’wasn’t like he was wanting for wanking fantasies if he was honest with himself. His favourite was –

 

A knock sounded at the door. Not his room door though; the bathroom one. Thorin looked up and met Bilbo’s eyes.

 

Oh.

 

He greedily drank in the sight of Bilbo leaning against the doorway. He was dressed in his lovely patchwork dressing gown – and the sight of bare legs meant that either he was wearing a nightshirt underneath it, or (more intriguingly) nothing at all. But.

 

“As much as I take pleasure in your presence,” – and when exactly had he moved to Bilbo’s side? – “we can’t.”

 

“Can’t what?” Bilbo’s eyes were wide and innocent, but the hand he was using to stroke Thorin’s arm was anything but.

 

“Can’t sleep together.” To tell the truth, his resolve was chipping away with every slow drag of skilful fingers along the inside of his elbow. He cleared his throat. “Unless you’ve forgotten, we’re in my sister’s house. And there’re children just downstairs – Frodo included –”

 

“And they’re _asleep_ ,” was the maddeningly reasonable reply. “Besides which, I can be quiet.”

 

Thorin snorted.

 

Bilbo twisted his lips. “I _can_.” He put up his chin, eyes half lidded. “Anyway, you’re forgetting that we can lock the door.”

 

Thorin glanced towards said door, which was already conveniently closed. No one in the house would dare to enter his room without knocking – and usually the children left well enough alone unless Dís was instigating them. He was reasonably sure she’d not do such a thing; Christmas tended to mellow his sister. Locking it would just be an extra precaution.

 

And, hey, if he kept Bilbo’s mouth busy (either with his own mouth, or… other things), then they wouldn’t have to worry about being too loud and –

 

Clearly his resolve was long gone; Bilbo seemed to sense this, letting his hand trail downwards so he could tangle their fingers together. He pulled an entirely unresisting Thorin towards the bed.

 

They didn’t end up bolting the door. Thorin found it difficult to think; getting off the bed and sliding the latch closed was not only too much effort, it was also an incredibly stupid choice when there was the more preferable work of meeting the soft press of Bilbo’s lips.

 

Their legs were tangled together beneath the sheets, sliding sinuously as they moved close. Thorin’s arms were wrapped around Bilbo’s body, one hand cradling the nape of Bilbo’s neck and the other drawing down his spine. Bilbo’s hands lay trapped between their bodies, slowly mapping Thorin’s wide chest.

 

Bilbo’s mouth tasted overwhelmingly of mint – the same as his own, Thorin was sure – and was wonderfully warm and wet. There was none of the rush Thorin had feared; they kissed and kissed and kissed, unhurriedly content to learn each other. Bilbo turned pliant and yielding when Thorin nibbled at his neck, and Thorin’s toes curled delightedly when Bilbo’s blunt fingernails wandered beneath his shirt.

 

He remembered, clearly, noting the differences between their noses as he nuzzled Bilbo’s – then his eyes, already closed, refused to open again and –

 

* * *

 

It was fairly typical that he’d fall asleep, when all was said and done. The only saving grace Thorin had was that the same had happened to Bilbo.

 

In spite of everything, it was immensely pleasing to stir and find that small, soft body curled into his. When Thorin woke up enough to brush his lips over Bilbo’s forehead, he was rewarded with a sleepy snuffle before Bilbo burrowed his face further into Thorin’s neck. Thorin then decided that a few more moments (hours, as it later turned out) in bed would be an indulgence worth enjoying.

 

* * *

 

Balin’ and Dwalin’s flight came in just after lunch, and it was Frerin’s job to meet them at the airport. Thorin tagged along for the hell of it, and the four of them were ruddy-cheeked with laughter (and the cold) by the time they pulled into the driveway.

 

Despite the fullness of the house – they really did have a large family, and it was a good thing they only had gatherings like this on specific holidays else they’ll all be crazier than they were – Thorin noticed that a certain dishy ‘burglar’ was missing.

 

It took one questioning glance towards Dís to get to the bottom of that particular mystery.

 

“He went home,” she said, and (not-quite before the alarm spiked in Thorin’s brain) continued, “The oven decided to die on me after the ham came out, so he’s taking care of the pie.”

 

This perked Frerin’s attention. “Apple pie?”

 

“Yes, apple pie. Yes, I am aware of how much you love it. Make sure to thank Bilbo when he comes back.”

 

“I’ll make sure to kiss him,” Frerin said seriously. “Though I’d have to make sure the pie was safe first, else he’d drop it.”

 

Thorin barely resisted the urge to glare at his little brother. (Alright, he didn’t resist at all.) “There’ll be no kissing from you.”

 

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Both his siblings had turned to him with expressions of part surprise and part unholy glee. It was a small mercy that Balin and Dwalin had gone upstairs to put their bags away, else he’d be getting it from that end as well. Be that as it may, Thorin knew without a doubt that within the hour, the whole house would know that he and Bilbo were involved – and yes, children included.

 

He held up his forefinger before either Frerin or Dís could speak. “It’s Christmas.”

 

Frerin rested his elbow on Dís’ shoulder, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “So?”

 

“So I’m asking nicely that you lay off the teasing.” Thorin sighed. “Just for the holidays.”

 

“ _We_ won’t say anything,” Dís said, elbowing Frerin when he protested. “We won’t. But what makes you think the rest of our dear family will be so kind?”

 

Thorin put on his best pleading look.

 

“Oh, no, no. No. We’re not going to –”

 

Frerin carefully put his hand over Dís’ mouth, talking over her muffled objections. “Why, sister, it’d only be fair. Since you’ve promised Thorin that we won’t tease him until New Year’s, it shouldn’t be a hardship to get the others to agree.”

 

Dís shot him a glare, pinching the back of his hand so he’d let go – which he did, yelping.

 

“No promises,” she told Thorin, and he bowed his head.

 

Quite frankly, that was better than he’d hoped for. And since he could, he was going to stay well away while his siblings did damage control. He told them this.

 

“And where are you going to go?” Frerin demanded.

 

“To help Bilbo bake, of course.” Dís smirked at the glare this earned her.

 

“Huh. Yeah, Thorin could help with the –” Their brother’s blue eyes were wide and worried. “Don’t distract Bilbo when he’s making pie. If it gets burned or otherwise destroyed, you’ll have _ruined_ Christmas.”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes and backed away towards the door, glad he hadn’t bothered to remove his coat. “I’m going now.”

 

“Do you hear me, Thorin? Ruined! _Ruined_!”

 

***

 

Escaping the house turned out to be an excellent decision. Well, being free of his smart-mouthed family and Frerin’s melodrama made it a good decision. It was made a great decision when he was practically manhandled into Bilbo’s apartment.

 

The excellent part was Bilbo continuing to showcase his knee-weakening kissing skills.

 

(As an aside, Thorin did make sure to ask about the pie. He wasn’t as obsessed as Frerin seemed to be, but he held the same opinion that apple pie was tradition in their family. Bilbo, brilliant as ever, had pertly replied that he’d made two more and they were all being kept warm in his oven.)

 

With no more distractions between the two of them, they made their way to the master bedroom, shedding clothes as they went. By the time Bilbo shoved Thorin onto the mattress they were both completely bare; words burned away between them, but their eyes held enough depth of emotion that neither felt shy or unwanted.

 

Thorin let his hands and fingers roam greedily, touching all the skin he could reach, rolling over so Bilbo’s body was trapped beneath his. He chased after Bilbo’s blush that spread so charmingly down his chest, rewarded by slender fingers tangled in his long hair.

 

Bilbo was beautiful. His hair was especially golden against the dark blue of his pillowcases, almost as bright as his eyes. He was so much smaller than Thorin, about a head shorter and almost delicate – almost. His fingers may have been small but they were sure of their welcome, slipping from Thorin’s hair and following the strong line of his spine. Bilbo’s legs were spread wide to accommodate Thorin’s larger body, soft thighs pressing on either side of Thorin’s waist. His cock lay against his belly, hot and hard – _beautiful_.

 

Thorin did his best to convey his wonder; his kisses were worshipful, his touch gentle. Every stroke of his tongue was reverent. He moved downwards on the bed, held Bilbo’s wide hips steady and brought him to the very brink of rapture – then pulled away, easily shrugging of Bilbo’s insistent hands and bitter curses.

 

“Lube?” he asked, skating his tongue along the shell of Bilbo’s ear.

 

“Um.” Bilbo’s breath shuddered when teeth started nibbling. “Bedside table, third – third drawer.”

 

If Bilbo had any surprise when Thorin fitted the condom over his cock, he didn’t show it. Instead the smaller man writhed on the bed, pushing his hips up to get whatever friction he could – Thorin wasn’t cruel, and obligingly gave Bilbo’s cock a few steady pumps.

 

He had to withdraw his hand, despite Bilbo’s whine of displeasure, and prepared himself as quickly as he could, straddling Bilbo and keeping his half-lidded gaze on Bilbo’s flushed face. The look he received in return was almost fierce; hazel eyes nearly black, dark with lust and intensity, and Thorin wished he could suspend time right at that moment.

 

It made him lightheaded to think that he’d be recipient to that look for the foreseeable future. (If he did right by Bilbo and managed to keep him by his side.)

 

When he impaled himself onto Bilbo it was utterly, beautifully glorious. Not only did Thorin feel the same fullness of their being together – being a finished jigsaw puzzle –, that sensation was coupled with the fullness of Bilbo within him, thick and weighty, rubbing in the most pleasurable way imaginable.

 

It had been awhile, if Thorin was honest. For a long time he’d been far too busy and far too uninterested in sex (certainly not as interested as he had been in his teenage years), and then next thing he knew he was pining over someone he used to think of as too-fussy and annoying – and now Bilbo’s hips were brushing against his arse and he could barely think enough to move.

 

Bilbo put his hand on Thorin’s belly; it wasn’t cold, but cooler than Thorin’s own skin, and enough to bring him back to the present. Mmm, and an agreeable present it was. Beneath him, Bilbo looked as incoherent as Thorin felt; his curls clung to his forehead and neck, mouth wide and chest heaving as he sucked in desperately needed breaths. Thorin put his hand over Bilbo’s and stroked, trying for calming. Wasn’t quite sure it worked, because Bilbo then hissed out air between clenched teeth.

 

“Please.” Bilbo wriggled his hips, apparently unable to help himself, making Thorin arch. “Don’t tease me.”

 

Thorin didn’t nod, didn’t answer; he just breathed as steadily as he could… and obeyed.

 

His thighs burned before long. They quivered as he lifted and lowered himself, fucking himself on Bilbo’s cock with slow strokes, one hand braced on the headboard of the bed and the other still over Bilbo’s. He’d dreamed of this for so long, when he allowed himself to be weak and think on what could have been. The reality was so much more intense than his imagination could come up with.

 

Thorin let Bilbo take over, let him rock his hips upwards ever insistently, and he curled his back so he could seal together their mouths. He caught mewls and whimpers and gasps alike, pulling back to bite lightly at Bilbo’s lips, and then finally rubbing his no-doubt bristly beard along the skin of Bilbo’s neck just to have him arch – oh, yes, just like that –!

 

What did him in were Bilbo’s clever fingers; they slipped away from under his, down over his neglected cock. Thorin hid his cry against Bilbo’s throat, mouth open over silky skin as Bilbo stroked and tugged, hand slick and fast and somehow exploiting every weakness Thorin had, oh –

 

He spilled messily between their bodies, clenching around Bilbo as he came and doubtless triggering his orgasm. Bilbo whined wordlessly, thrusting in to the hilt and staying there. He had an almost painful grasp on Thorin’s hair, but Thorin couldn’t be bothered enough to care – not when he was still twitching in pleasure.

 

Nothing would shatter his blissful post-sex haze.

 

No, not even when Bilbo snickered something about it being a white Christmas after all.

**Author's Note:**

> /has run away
> 
> oh, happy holidays if you have 'em. if not, I hope you'll get r&r in!


End file.
